Cold Steel
by Dr Yes
Summary: James Bond tackles the Hong Kong mafia, an eccentric billionaire and a brilliant assassin. Just another day, really.
1. Rendezvous

c1

Cold Steel  
  
Chapter 1  
  
  
  
Somewhere in Japan.......  
  
The bullet train glided through the mountainous country side, with the speed of lightning and the grace of a gazelle. From the inside, passengers could barely glimpse one view of the hills before another replaced it, turning the outside world into blur. Only the faint rumbling of the engine and rushing crosswind could be heard.  
  
A man sat in the fourth car from the rear, resting his chin on his right hand, his blue-grey eyes fixed on the Chogoku Mountains in the distance, but not admiring the scenery. His left hand held a large, sleek, contemporary briefcase, and he wore a simple, tailor-made, blue suit. He had a rare, peaceful moment to himself, thinking of times past, both the pleasurable and painful. He endeavoured not to dwell on the painful moments, only acknowledging that they had occurred.  
  
The door at the far end of his car slid open softly, allowing the passage of two casually dressed men, apparently tourists. One appeared Chinese, young, slender and medium height, with his long, jet black hair tied in a well-groomed, yet unfashionable, ponytail. He had an air of authority, and a piercing glare which seemed to take in everything as he gazed about the car. The slight movement in his lips as his eyes darted around the cabin indicated that he was perhaps counting passengers. The second new arrival was short, squat and Caucasian, the kind of human sloth whose every movement appears laboured. He was certainly older than the Chinese man, perhaps in his early forties, but lacked the menacing presence. He lumbered rather than walked, his arms held out wide to accommodate his figure and the grey briefcase he carried as he made his way through the car.  
  
The two men halted at the original man's booth and sat calmly in the green, cushioned seat opposite him, the Chinese man on the right.   
  
Good afternoon, Christopher, smiled the Chinese man, his deceptively cryptic greeting directed towards the original man.  
  
And you must be Robin, replied Christopher without a smile, his hard, cruel mouth fixed in a somewhat permanent sombre expression.  
  
Do you have the money? asked Robin, sizing Christopher up as the squat man remained taciturn, more interested in the scenery than the conversation.  
  
Our friends from the Triad become more efficient each time we meet. No small talk?  
  
smiled Robin.  
  
Of course not. Do you have the coke?  
  
The agreed sample. Eight kilos. If the merchandise is up to your expectation, my employer will deliver the remainder within the coming week.  
  
Excellent .  
  
Briefcases were exchanged, and both parties checked their payments. The switch was extremely fluent, well practised, and most importantly, fast. Robin rose to leave, but the squat man held him back by the shoulder and spoke for the first time, whispering into his ear. Robin studied Christopher carefully, then whispered back. The reply was a confident nod. Robin seated himself again and slipped his hand underneath his t-shirt and producing a Colt .45 Defender with a certain ease.  
  
It appears we have a problem, said Robin, his confident smile gone. My associate has informed me that you are in fact a British Secret Service agent. Bunt, or something?  
  
Bond. James Bond.  
  
Stay seated, James, or I will kill you, threatened Robin, his eyes darting around the car to ensure that nobody had seen his weapon. Any sudden movement may just end your career.  
  
For the first time, Bond settled back in his chair and smiled. His eyes not directed towards the drug dealers, but out the window once again. Something had caught his eye. Suddenly, the train entered a tunnel, and they were engulfed in darkness.   
  
He groped for Robin's gun, and seized it in the darkness, pointing it away from his body as Robin's index finger squeezed the trigger twice. Chaos erupted around the car as the passengers took cover, some screaming, others trembling in the blackness. The train emerged from the tunnel as they continued to wrestle with both hands over the gun. Joining the fray, the squat man took careful aim and landed a heavy left jab on Bond's chin. The blow sent Bond sprawling onto the aisle floor, but he regained his composure and crawled desperately up the aisle as Robin fired another shot into the floor, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly.  
  
Robin moved elegantly into the aisle, and fired a fourth shot, missing from point blank as Bond moved into the next booth, empty, and, using the cushioned seat as cover, drew his Walther PPK from a shoulder holster. He raised his head and fired twice at his assailants over the seat, but succeeded only in shattering a window as they had already hidden themselves. A powerful, hairy hand reached over Bond's seat and took hold of him by the lapel, trying successfully to pull him up over the seat. Bond landed on the other side, losing his grip on the Walther, at the feet of the short man. He wasted no time in straddling Bond's chest and choking him with both hands around the throat.  
  
Bond contracted his neck muscles and reflexively attempted in vain to remove the strong grip from around his neck as the squat man continued to squeeze mercilessly. As Bond battled for air, Robin moved closer, glanced down at him, holstered his gun so that both of his hands would be free. Fading from consciousness, the British agent watched helplessly as Robin took both briefcases and fled towards the rear of the tram, choosing to value his own safety rather than that of his friend.   
  
Realising that he had been abandoned, the squat man turned his head. Bond seized this brief opportunity to slap his opponent's ears with cupped hands as firmly as he could. The man rolled back into the aisle, groaning and holding his ears, giving Bond the chance to stand. He decided to follow Robin, but recovered his gun before taking after him, leaving the squat man in writhing in agony. He hurried through two carriages, with onlookers shrieking at the sight of the armed man. As he entered the last carriage, he was forced to hesitate and dive into a seat, onto the lap of a middle-aged businessman, as Robin fired another shot from the other end. Bond had enough time to see that the manhole in the roof was open, and that, perhaps using the aid of the nearest seat, passed the briefcases up and was preparing to climb up himself. Bond's suspicions were correct. When he looked again, the Chinese man had disappeared.  
  
At speed Bond dashed through the car and pulled himself up through the manhole, feeling the impact of the winds immediately. The train had apparently slowed down to travel up a hill, and had given Robin the chance to crawl, with both briefcases in one hand and his Colt in the other, along the roof of the train.  
  
The high speed winds made progress difficult, but Bond was determined to at least succeed in part of his mission. He struggled along the carriages, trying to keep pace with the agile Robin. Fortunately, he had a free hand, enabling him to crawl much faster and traverse the half-metre gaps between carriages with relative ease. Standing would have been suicidal, with the hurricane-like winds caused by the train's speed rushing over the roof.   
  
Using every muscle in his rapidly tiring body, Bond finally caught up with Robin's heels. A simple shot from inches away was all that Bond required. However, Robin was alert to the situation, and with a glance over his shoulder drove a heel into Bond's gun. The Walther flew from his hand and connected firmly with his head, disorienting him, and sending him sliding off the roof. Panicked, Bond gripped the small grooves in the roof of the train, the wind blowing his hair into his face as he held on, dangling from the side of the train with muscles screaming.  
  
Robin crawled over to where Bond was hanging and muttered in Chinese, before aiming his weapon at Bond's head. He would not miss again. Bond closed his eyes in anticipation.  
  
When he opened them, everything around him had turned black. He was in a tunnel, passing through another mountain. Robin, however, was not. His usual vigilance had failed him, blinded by anger and the opportunity to kill, and the tunnel entrance struck him at a lethal speed.  
  
Bond pulled himself up, his left arm aching, and dropped into the nearest manhole. The high winds stopped abruptly as he returned to safety in the company of astonished passengers. He lay for a few minutes breathing heavily, trying to regain his composure, before the world faded out. 


	2. Mission Failed

c2

Chapter 2  
Mission Failed  
  
The fact remains that you failed your mission, 007, growled M from his high-backed leather chair, his voice gruff. M's office at MI-6 Headquarters in London was decorated - at the taxpayer's expense - with only the finest. The office suited Sir Miles Messervy; it was conservative, refined and the very picture of class. He sighed, his weathered hands clasped in front of him on the red leather desktop, and continued. Your job was to give our Triad contact the bugged briefcase so that we could discover the identity of his direct employer. It was routine.  
  
It was suicide, replied Bond, seated comfortably on the opposite side of M's thick, cluttered mahogany desk. One of them knew me.  
  
M was taken aback. The identities of double-oh agents, MI-6's elite licensed to kill' operatives, were kept strictly confidential. Did you kill him? asked M, a touch of concern in his voice.   
  
No, I'm afraid not, replied Bond, his eyes downcast. He escaped. I left him in one of the cars to pursue the Triad contact and the cases. The driver stopped when he realised there'd been a gunfight in his train, and he must have slipped out.  
  
M let the comment about the gunfight' pass. We can't have the identity of one of our top agents common knowledge in criminal circles. Did you recognise him?  
  
I'd never seen him before, replied Bond, shaking his head. He was five foot six, heavy build, brown hair and eyes, about forty, hell of a grip.  
  
He might be on file. Could you ID him? asked M.  
  
  
  
M switched turned to the laptop on his desk and began hitting keys very firmly, utilising only his two index fingers, pausing to search for each letter. Within a few minutes he had entered the relevant information into MI-6's criminal database and found 27 possible matches. Nine were in custody, and fourteen were dead, leaving four possibilities. M turned his computer monitor to face Bond, giving him the opportunity to identify the squat man from the train.  
  
Ah, yes, smiled Bond, indicating the second picture. That's him.  
  
Interesting character. Hugo Laforge. Canadian. Quite a long list of charges. No convictions. His lawyers have managed to keep them from sticking.  
  
Which makes him suspicious?  
  
M leaned forward. Yes, quite. His defence was allegedly financed by a casino owner in Rome, a Mr Sanford Steele. Do you know him?  
  
Not socially, no. I know of him. Owns the Corona Casino in Rome, fortune estimated at eight point two billion US dollars, numerous other investments, oil, gold, property, resides just outside Rome with his wife Cynthia. Hobbies include tennis, golf, swimming and gambling, naturally.  
  
For what possible reason would one have that kind of knowledge at their disposal, 007? queried M with a hint of disgust.  
  
Never mind that, retorted Bond, his tone suddenly becoming more serious. We know that Steele is connected with Laforge, and that Laforge is connected with the Triad's cocaine deals.  
  
So perhaps you should pay Steele a visit. Shake him up, and find out what he's up to, if anything. In the unlikely, but favourable, event that he is completely unconnected, go after Laforge, ordered M. He removed a document from within a desk drawer and placed it in front of him, then plucked his gold plated fountain pen from its holder to scrawl a signature with abandon. Moneypenny will shuffle the papers. Your plane leaves for Rome tomorrow.  
  
Excellent. I hear Rome is lovely this time of year. Am I using my Boldman alias? he asked, concealing his aversion to disguises.  
  
M shook his head. If Steele has something to hide, we want him coming after you.  
  
Very considerate of you, sir. Bond rose slowly and took his leave, passing through M's heavy, oak office door. Moneypenny's bright blue eyes lit up as he entered the foyer. The secretary swivelled in her chair and stood, trying unsuccessfully to appear seductive.  
  
Where are we off to, James? she asked, with a flirtatious half-smile.  
  
retorted Bond, pretending he failed to grasp her exact intentions.  
  
I've got a week of leave coming up, and I hear you've been sent on a mission. Maybe we could...link up, she smiled, winking for emphasis.  
  
Sorry, darling, replied James, avoiding eye contact. There's nothing I'd enjoy more, but I get the feeling you'd be far too much of a distraction on this one. You know how the saying - When in Rome...  
  
That's do _as _ the Romans', interrupted Moneypenny.  
  
Ah, I stand corrected, replied Bond, repressing a grin.  
  
He strode out of the room, taking his hat, leaving Moneypenny contemplating what might have been.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Meanwhile, Sanford Steele was relaxing, enjoying the fine weather of a peaceful Saturday afternoon in Rome. He and his vice-president, Giovanni Marconi, were competing against a pair of newspaper executives in a doubles' tennis match on Steele's private lawn court at his mansion on the outskirts of the city. Steele was still young enough, his thirty-seventh birthday having been only three weeks before, to play well, and he had something of a natural gift on the sporting arena. He stood five feet eleven inches high, and was built athletically, particularly powerful through the torso. His dark brown hair was now beginning to show flecks of grey, a desirable trait in the business world, but his face, with its strong jaw-line, chiselled features and hazel eyes, remained virtually untouched by age. With his obvious physical strength and ideal posture, one, on first glance, could have been forgiven for mistaking him for a sportsman rather than a businessman. Marconi however, fifteen years older and only a newcomer to the sport, was struggling. Despite this, the pair had managed to draw level at four games all, with Steele to serve. To his delight, his first serve resulted in an ace, swinging wide, away from the returner's forehand. His opposition and partner congratulated him heartily. As he walked to the other side of the baseline, he was interrupted by the mobile phone on the sidelines, and forced to delay the game while taking the call. He apologised and the remaining three carried on their conversation of stocks and bonds while he jogged over to his sports' bag.  
  
Hello, Sanford Steele, he said automatically, putting the phone to his ear while wiping the sweat from his forehead with a white hand-towel.  
  
It's Laforge here, muttered the voice on the other end hurriedly. The muffled sound of traffic could be heard in the background.  
  
Laforge! How did it go? he inquired, keeping his voice down to avoid drawing the others' attention to him.  
  
Bad. We got trouble. MI-6 is involved. It don't look good. Our contact' was James Bond, a spy I met once. Didn't recognise him at first, but the more I looked, the more I knew. He killed Robin and the cases were lost. I slipped out of the train first chance I got.  
  
The Triad won't be pleased, Steele thought aloud. Do you think he'll be back?  
  
said Laforge, still talking hastily. He always is.  
  
Where are you? asked Steele, barely concerned.  
  
Beijing. I figured I'd be safer in the crowds here than back in London.  
  
Right. First cancel the London shipment....  
  
Already done, interrupted Laforge.  
  
Then go back to London. Find Bond and kill him before he tries to come after me. I don't want any more interruptions to our schedule, ordered Steele.  
  
  
  
But nothing. This is not negotiable. Your mission is simple. Find and kill James Bond.  
  
He switched the phone off abruptly, leaving Laforge dumbfounded in his Beijing phone booth. He returned to the court, and apologised a second time.  
  
Who was that? inquired Marconi. Marconi, even as did not know about the cocaine, or any of the other illegal activities which Steele ran separate to his legitimate businesses.  
  
Just an ex-employee, said Steele, removing a ball from his pocket. Let's get on with the game.


	3. Flight 409

c3

Chapter 3  
Flight 409  
  
James Bond sat in the departure lounge of Heathrow Airport with a glass of duty-free scotch resting in his stomach. The mission ahead seemed relatively straight-forward, trying to find the link between Steele and the Triad smuggling cocaine into England, but nevertheless he remained concerned, knowing that death was always a possibility. It was his responsibility to stay cold about death, like a surgeon or a general, but no amount of training could harden a man completely. He surveyed the area, looking for anything to help pass the time, checking his watch frequently. Finally, his plane, a weathered DC-10, arrived and he boarded.  
  
Airline travel was something which Bond found quite tedious, yet relaxing. He was accustomed to long journeys, jetting across the globe on dangerous missions, yet the time always passed slowly. Even the comforts of the business class section, particularly the complimentary champagne, failed to meet his satisfaction. After a fruitless half-hour endeavour to catch some sleep, he called an attendant, an aging, grey-haired woman, and had her bring him a plate of scrambled eggs. The sub-standard airline food left him satiated, and he soon nodded off.  
  
The arrival at Leonardo Da Vinci Airport, on the coast fifteen miles southwest of the city and more of a shopping plaza than a transportation centre, went flawlessly. His luggage had, thanks to Q-Branch's handy briefcase, made it through customs, despite the fact that it carried Bond's Walther, silencer, six clips, listening devices, and enough C4 explosive to destroy a good-sized planet.  
  
He followed the signs to the luggage carousel, making note of the London departure times for his return. One, a British Airways flight, on a stopover from Beijing, left in one hour. He decided that one week would probably give him enough time, and made a mental note to take the same flight in seven days' time. Carrying a suitcase in either hand, he found his way to the main entrance and exit. This area of the airport was enormous, with a three-storey high roof and a floor tiled in two shades of blue, with the artistic pattern resembling Italy when viewed from above. The tiled area was surrounded by stores, mainly duty free, trying to cash in on the departing travellers. Looking, as was his habit, at all the faces in the crowd, one caught his eye. A short, squat man, dressed casually, was plodding through the automatic doors with a large, blue suitcase in his right hand. Hugo Laforge.  
  
Bond's mentally checked his options. He could have tailed Laforge and discovered his planned destination. He could also have pulled him aside and confronted him. However, he knew that Laforge's mission may well be to assassinate him, so Bond decided to try and slip by unnoticed, which would buy him much more time before a confrontation. This way, Steele would not realise he was onto him for at least another day, perhaps two. Bond ducked into the nearest store, a souvenir outlet, and hid himself behind a rack of Italian flags and Leaning Tower of Pisa models. From this vantage point, Bond had a clear, unobstructed view, and was able to follow Laforge's movements closely.  
  
However, his position soon became worse. Laforge looked up and examined several of the stores around him, and finally the souvenir store in which Bond was hiding. For what seemed an eternity, the pair made eye contact, seemingly staring into each other's minds. He checked his watch, mumbled something to himself, and made his way over. Bond once again weighed up the situation. He felt certain that Laforge had sighted him. The squat man strolled, for what seemed an eternity towards the shop, every step laboured, the sound of his footsteps now distinguishable. 007 looked around the store for another place to hide, but the whole room was barely twenty feet long by fifteen feet wide. His predicament was dire. He stood facing a corner filled by shelves containing cheap glassware and cutlery, and watched the reflections through a well-polished wine glass.  
  
Laforge finally entered the tiny souvenir outlet and walked to the rear wall, within arms reach of Bond. He glanced over at Bond, and picked up a long, shiny, stainless steel knife from the third shelf. He examined it carefully, then shook his head deliberately and returned it, unsatisfied. Bond continued to watch the reflection, and as he saw Laforge take a second knife, a seven-inch utility knife with a red, white and green striped handle, he took hold of a nearby decorative bottle and prepared to shatter it, giving him an improvised deadly weapon. Again, Laforge laid the knife back on the shelf and glanced over at Bond. Bond's grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles turning white as his pulse gained speed.  
  
Laforge took a third knife, a practical four-inch paring knife, and glanced over at the shop attendant, a tall, fatigued young man. Seeing that his attention was elsewhere, he prepared to make his move. He adjusted his grip and charged at Bond, thrusting furiously at the agent's throat.  
  
Bond reacted with moments to spare. He broke the bottle on the shelf while twisting out of his assailant's reach. The noise was lost in the airport's acoustics, leaving much of the crowd oblivious to the face-off.  
  
The two men paused for a beat, balanced low to the ground, knees bent, circling around each other to find a weakness. Both were ready to act at the instant the other made his move. Laforge's breathing became heavy, sweat beading on his forehead as nerves took hold.  
  
He thrust wildly at the right side of Bond's torso, but the poorly aimed blow struck nothing but air as Bond dodged rapidly to his left. The cramped store which served as their arena made free movement difficult, and Bond was forced to step behind a rack of souvenirs to put some distance between him and his squat opponent. Using his superior reach, Bond kept Laforge at arm's length with a few tentative swipes of the bottle, before bringing up his right leg in a crescent kick. The kick pushed Laforge's knife arm to the side as Bond stepped in with a left jab to the chin before thrusting the bottle into Laforge's right arm.  
  
He dropped the knife as blood flowed freely from the wound, and clutched at it in vain as Bond knocked him unconscious with a hay-maker.  
  
Bond bolted out of the store and through a set of automatic doors onto the footpath. Dozens of taxis were lined up, either collecting or delivering travellers. Bond threw open the door of the nearest one and, using his best Italian, instructed the taxi driver to _azionamento'_.  
  
As woke up on the cold, tiled floor, Laforge, battered and bleeding, made another call to his employer and informed him of the double-oh agent's presence in Rome. With that unpleasant task taken care of, he pushed aside the onlookers and hired himself a taxi to make his way into the city, his head aching beyond belief, hoping to regain the scent, or perhaps even catch sight of his foe.   
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Almost the instant that Steele had replaced his private office phone in its cradle, he raised it again dialled.  
  
said the high-pitched, Chinese accented female voice on the other end.  
  
Hello, this is Sanford Steele calling from Rome, replied Steele, speaking slowly and clearly so that the non-native speaker could comprehend, partly because of their rather poor connection. Is Mr Cheung available? he inquired.  
  
answered the secretary using one of the words of her vocabulary of fifty. I'll put you through immediately.  
  
Steele thanked the girl and settled back into his comfortable burgundy leather armchair. Steele's office was relatively small for a man of his economic stature, with two of the four light grey walls lined with books of all kinds, from the classics to biographies. The only furnishings were four chairs, including the armchair behind his desk and three other smaller, wooden framed chairs, his desk, filled with the paperwork pertaining to his casino and other investments, a small locked cabinet, and the bookshelves. The floor was carpeted in the same colour as his armchair, and the lamps in the high ceiling were often required as there were no windows, unusual for a fourteen storey high office, and the only natural lighting came through a small skylight. Steele felt at home in his casino office, having made much of his fortune through machiavellian deals settled in this place. Of course, he had inherited a large sum and the casino when his father died of a heart attack at fifty-eight, when Sanford was only twenty-one, but through a lack of honesty and a willingness to plant the proverbial knife in the back, he had multiplied it one hundred fold. In addition, he had several associates', such as Laforge, willing to plant the literal knife in the back, which helped to keep his own hands clean.  
  
said Mr Cheung in his flat, unemotive drone, it is indeed happy to hear from you.  
  
I must apologise for the incident on the train. However, we're both in danger of losing a great deal. British intelligence is on the case...  
  
Ah, British Intelligence, interrupted Cheung in his broken English, a classic oxymoron, he added, impressed with his own wit and vocabulary in the foreign language. They are five steps behind us always. Why do you calling me, Steele? Are you afraid?  
  
It's more of a healthy concern, snapped Steele, offended by Cheung's suggestion. I thought I should let you know, out of courtesy.  
  
Then I thank you. I will send my lieutenant in Rome to meet with you. You may trust them.  
  
I, in turn, thank you. It will no doubt be beneficial for our mutual causes to discuss this matter further. I look forward to it. Until next time?  
  
Goodbye, Steele. Click.  



	4. Hotel Olimpico

Chapter 4  
  
Chapter 4  
Hotel Olimpico  
  
Rome is indeed one of the most exciting and beautiful capitals in the Western World. From the ancient structures such as the Circus Maximus and Colosseum to the fine restaurants, there is something new around every corner. It is also the noisiest, filthiest and loudest city in Italy with the average speed of traffic in the city estimated at 4 miles per hour.   
  
James Bond, practically trapped in the taxi, resorted to travelling by foot to reach his prepaid hotel room at the Hotel Olimipico on the Corso di Francia. Bond stood out only slightly in the city. His tailored suit, a navy blue Brioni, and dark hair and complexion helped to hide him among the other citizens. Bond was about six feet tall, weighed around twelve stone, and was generally lean and clean-cut, so he was perfectly designed to fit in with the European crowd.  
  
The walk from Viale Trastevere took a little over an hour, but as a man in peak physical condition it allowed him to get a feel for the city, its layout and its people. He had always found knowledge of his environment to be a useful tool in espionage.  
  
Hotel Olimpico, located near the Stadia Olimpico, is a five-star hotel, suited to the likes of high-flying businessmen and promiscuous spies. A middle-aged porter with a ridiculous red toy-soldier suit and a deep scowl took the agent's luggage as he walked through the automatic revolving glass door. Two security guards stood as sentinels at the entrance, examining every new arrival with trained eyes. Bond admired the spacious lobby, with its high ceilings and tiled floor, then shifted his gaze to the desk clerk, a tall, attractive Italian girl.   
  
_Ciao, Signore_. What can I do for you? said the clerk in a thickly accented, slightly husky voice.  
  
Oh, I can think of a great many things, smiled Bond, maintaining contact with her deep brown eyes. My name is James Bond.  
  
She smiled and punched the name into her keyboard. Ah, yes. Number 802. The penthouse. I trust it will be more than satisfactory.  
  
He glanced down at her name tag. Do we have a spa, Rosetta?  
  
  
  
Sorry, I.  
  
Why, yes, of course.  
  
Bond winked and strode over to the elevator with a key in his hand and a broad grin on his face. He turned and waved to his new acquaintance as the doors closed.  
  
* * *  
  
In the Corona Casino's underground communications room, a cheer rang out.   
  
What is it? asked the tense Laforge through gritted teeth, examining the stolen paring knife he still held in his soft hands.  
  
I found Bond, said a small, slightly built man with oily brown hair and thin-rimmed glasses, sitting at one of the many computer terminals in the poorly lit room. He's staying at the Hotel Olimpico in Room 802. He even signed in under his real name. You see, I've managed to penetrate the firewalls at all of...  
  
Laforge gave him no chance to finish. He picked up his gun from atop a nearby filing cabinet and ordered the three armed guards present to join him. They rushed to the armoury, and from there to the Hotel Olimpico.  
  
* * *  
  
Bond was satisfied by his new surroundings. The suite was divided into three rooms, a bathroom, a bedroom and a lounge. The lounge, largest of the three rooms, was where he found himself standing upon entry, with the bedroom on his right, concealed by folding doors, and the bathroom adjoined to the bedroom. The room he was standing was relatively deep and broad, with an unorthodox nine-foot ceiling and a large window on the opposite wall, the northern side. The window was equipped with blackout curtains, but as these would only obscure the marvellous eighth story view of Rome's city centre he left them open. There was seating sufficient for ten, including a leather sofa on the western side, a wide screen television set in the north-eastern corner, a dining setting on the left hand side of the door and a kitchenette opposite. Rather than relaxing immediately after his brisk walk through the city, he entered the bedroom and placed his suitcase on the double bed to check the contents.   
  
His Walther and the explosives remained intact, thankfully, as did his dinner suit. The miniature camera hidden in his bow tie, and the listening device in the third button would act as the eyes and ears for the covert Italian Headquarters for MI-6, who would, according to the brief, be monitoring the mission. His other personal effects and spare clothes remained in order, so he set about planning his moves as best he could. The first step was to report in at HQ, a less than pleasant task before a life-threatening mission, but nevertheless it was necessary. He attached his shoulder holster and placed the handgun inside, in the likely event that it would be required, unpacked the unnecessary clothing, then returned his tuxedo and explosives to the case. He straightened his tie in the mirror above the bed, then left the room and drank a glass of water from the kitchenette. After he had left the room, he plucked a solitary black hair from his head and placed it across the door and door jamb. If the hair was gone when he returned, he could almost be certain that someone had broken in. He locked the door using the key card and went on his way.  
  
* * *  
  
James Bond! greeted the regional director, as he rose energetically from his chair. I am honoured to meet you!  
  
Not at all, replied Bond with a warm handshake.  
  
The great 007 in our humble little outpost, of course it's an honour, said the indefatigable man rapidly, as he withdrew his hand and placed around Bond's shoulder. The regional director, Alexander Norton, had been posted in Italy for the past twelve years. The years had been far from kind to him, balding and white-haired prematurely, he looked fifty-five rather than forty, and his pale, blotchy hands shook visibly as he retrieved his coffee mug from the briefing table. Still, paradoxically, he seemed to have all the vigour of a man half his age as he returned to his chair and introduced Bond to his colleagues.   
  
Norton gave him a personal tour of the headquarters, quite a brief affair as it consisted of fourteen rooms in all. Nine agents plus clerical staff were stationed there, holed up like voles underneath a department store in the centre of the city. Their presence was known, but not appreciated by the Italian authorities, who allowed them to operate under very strict conditions and a watchful eye. Bond was introduced to many of the residents, but the two operatives who would be assisting were already at the casino, so their first meeting would be during the mission itself. The pair returned to the briefing room and ran through the plan. Bond's equipment was checked by the resident Q-Branch member, and calibrated to ensure secure communication lines. He was introduced to three police who would be assisting, operating undercover, and adding firepower in case of emergency.  
  
The report went smoothly, and found the information he had received extremely useful. The officers would be instructed to play designated poker machines, while the operatives would be moving about freely, wearing distinctive emerald green shoes. While this was perhaps not the best form of identification, it was certainly better than nothing. Blueprints were provided for Bond to study, and as it was five o'clock, he figured he had approximately three hours to study them, eat, prepare, and travel before the scheduled commencement of the mission at eight o'clock. Once again, he took a cab and walked through the revolving doors at the entrance to his hotel, this time in a slight hurry. Rosetta, presumably finishing her shift, winked an almond-shaped eye as he passed. Summoning a great deal of self-control, Bond merely nodded in acknowledgement and continued to the elevator.  
  
* * *  
  
Something was quite obviously amiss. The hair he had placed across the door frame had been dislodged. Someone must have been able to defeat the hotel's locks. He placed put his case down gently, drew his gun, attached the silencer and knocked loudly on door 802.  
  
Room service! he shouted with a false Italian accent, still knocking. Open up!  
  
A voice inside responded, with a genuine Italian accent, Go away, I'm busy now!  
  
Bond listened for the origin of the voice, but as it was unclear where exactly the voice was coming from, he tried again, using the sound of his voice to cover the deactivation of the door lock. I'm bringin' you a complimentary bottle of wine! It won't take a minute!  
  
I don't drink! replied the gruff male voice. Take it away!  
  
Now certain that the intruder was slightly left of the door, probably on the sofa, Bond aimed in the general direction of the voice, then threw the door open, startling the attacker. Two silenced shots pierced the man's chest as he slumped to the floor, dead. The blackout curtains were drawn, but enough light streamed into the suite to give Bond a clear view of the lounge. Realising he would also be clearly visible to any additional assailants, so he stepped clear to the right and plunged into relative darkness. A whisper from the bedroom, intended to be silent, was clearly audible from where Bond was standing. He began to creep over toward the open door, his gun held in front of him, watching for the slightest movement.  
  
A shadowy figure spun into the doorway and filled the room with silenced automatic fire. Bond threw himself behind the kitchenette counter, unnoticed and waited for the shooting to stop. The muzzle flashes provided a disconcerting light as the bullets flew, penetrating the room's plaster walls. After what seemed an eternity, the clip was expended, and the gunman moved over to the sofa to check on his companion while drawing a second clip from his waist-belt. Bond, still hidden in the kitchenette, took careful aim and fired his third and fourth rounds into his target's temple, and he joined his dead companion.  
  
Logically, Bond suspected that his second victim was more than likely whispering to a third intruder when he had heard them in the bedroom. With that in mind, he crawled over to his victims, removed the first attackers loaded weapon from his limp, bloodied hand. Closer inspection revealed that the weapon was a Heckler & Koch MP-5 sub-machine, modified to accommodate the use of a silencer. The third attacker was obviously a cautious, and possibly cowardly man, as he remained in Bond's bedroom, quite silent. Bond chose to use his limited knowledge of Italian to dispose of him.  
  
All clear! he half-whispered, half yelled, in an attempt to conceal his voice.  
  
The third attacker responded by entering the doorway. Bond, crouched by his first two victims, finished him with the silenced MP-5. Cautiously, Bond rose and moved into the bedroom, his eyes having rapidly adjusted to the poor light, to make sure he was now alone.  
  
At first glance, it seemed that way. He checked the walk-in wardrobe, under the bed, all of the usual places for unimaginative assassins, then walked through into the bathroom. It too was empty. Satisfied, Bond dragged the bodies into the wardrobe, and went back outside to retrieve his case. He now had only two hours and fifty minutes to prepare, so he put his mind on the job.  
  
When he opened the blackout curtains to improve the wan lighting, he noticed a familiar short, squat man leaning against a black sedan on the other side of the street, watching the window intently.  
  
Laforge, stunned to see the British agent still alive, took a few moments to recover. Mindful of his own criminal record, he avoided drawing attention in a public place. Without a licence to kill, shootings in public places seldom just go away. He opened the driver's side door with a false calm and waited for a break in the rush hour traffic before pulling away.  
  
Rather than pursue the killer, Bond returned his attentions to the blueprints and prepared himself for yet another task.


	5. A Chance Meeting

Chapter 5  
A Chance Meeting  
  
Adam Chance, clad in an expensive, freshly-pressed white dinner suit, passed through the door to Sanford Steele's office casually. In his mind, this was simply another job, another high-flyer trying to eradicate their competition without dirtying their own soft hands. These lucrative deals were, in his view, far too few, as the financial benefit was often more than enough to warrant his personal attention. The lack of floor space took him by surprise - these people normally liked to feed their egos with golf course-like offices. The athlete in the burgundy leather armchair fit the description he had been given, so he spoke.  
  
Good evening, Mr Steele. Adam Chance. You called for me.  
  
Adam Chance? asked Steele, showing his surprise with a raised brow. The man himself. I thought you'd be sending one of your lackeys.  
  
Well, I try to deal with the more important cases personally, replied Chance with his ever-present smirk. Mind if I take a seat?  
  
Steele motioned toward one of the smaller, wooden-framed chairs and Chance sat. The hired killer was not at all what Steele had expected. These men were typically thugs, ogres, but Chance lacked this demeanour, instead appearing poised, almost delicate. He had short blond hair, stood about six feet tall, and was quite slender for a professional hit man. At just twenty-one years of age, this fair, hazel-eyed assassin had many corpses in his shadowy past. Born to an English father and French mother, he spent his early childhood with the circus. His father was a great magician, delighting children across Europe for decades with everything from grand illusion to card tricks. His mother, also in the circus, was a beautiful acrobat, a trapeze specialist who gave birth to her only child at the beginning of her career.  
  
They were both killed, in an unfortunate automobile accident during his late childhood, or so he was told. Young Adam had been committed to various institutions, learning, as the residents tend to do, to look after himself. However, Chance had something which set him apart from the average institutionalised miscreant, his talents gained from life in the circus and intellectual gifts made him an ideal assassin. By the time he was eighteen, he owned a contract-killing enterprise, under the cover of a real estate agency based in Barcelona.  
  
So who's the target? asked Chance in his smooth baritone voice.  
  
At the moment, me, replied Steele gravely. MI-6 is on to me. They've sent one of their operatives, licensed to kill, after me, and all of my attempts to stop him have so far failed.  
  
So who's the target? repeated Chance, his tone slightly more urgent.  
  
No specific target. I need a bodyguard, and you're the best in th....  
  
I'm not a babysitter, interrupted Chance. Either give me a target or stop wasting my time.  
  
Stick with me until this is over, and you'll receive twenty million US dollars.  
  
Chance's demeanour changed from outright hostility to complete openness. I'll take it. I have dossiers on all MI-6 agents and Rome police. Pretty sure I'll be able to recognise any of them. It'll be a pleasure doing business with you.   
  
They shook hands.  
  
* * *  
  
James Bond looked around the Corona Casino's main gaming room intently, attempting to catch sight of his allies. The incredibly broad room, the size of a football field, was almost filled to capacity, and the constant hum the crowd produced made concentration difficult. The ornate room was probably far cheaper to construct than it seemed at first glance, with its intricate marble statues lining the southern entrance wall, and the various prints hung on the spotless white walls. A marble centrepiece, an indoor fountain spraying water fifteen feet into the air seemed to act as a meeting place, as groups of three of four conducted conversations in their native language. Above it hung a golden chandelier, certainly fake but nonetheless impressive, with dozens of candles arranged in four tiers. Three elevators on the northern wall and an ornate staircase in the north-eastern corner connected this room with the other floors of the casino. The police were by no means challenging to spot among the throng, two overweight men and a rather homely female at their designated poker machines in the eastern third of the room, where rows and rows of the one-armed bandits were lined up like a robotic army. His enemies were quite another matter. Laforge was nowhere in site, possibly monitoring him on the security system. Still, he aimed to appear relaxed for a short while at the gaming tables while he waited for the appropriate time to make his move.  
  
Dodging the plebs in the central area of the room, crammed with commoners playing low-stake blackjack using no strategy at all, he found one of his operatives sitting by the indoor fountain. At least, she was wearing emerald green shoes, but he had no recollection of her.  
  
He addressed her casually, as though they were old friends. he exclaimed with a grin.  
  
Who are you? responded the woman sharply. She wore a low-cut evening gown, openly displaying her perfect hourglass figure. The green garment highlighted her eyes, a particularly unusual shade of green, and her long blonde hair fell across her shoulders in a slightly unkempt fashion. Her features were delicate, like a china doll, with soft, red lips that stuck in his mind. At another moment, she might have ravishing, but at present, she seemed fierce.  
  
Have you seen Steele? muttered Bond, breaking eye contact to scan the room again.  
  
You mean my husband? the woman snapped. Yes. What does he want with you?  
  
Bond was startled. He cursed HQ for failing to provide him with photographs of the agents, not mention one of Steele's wife Cynthia. Surely the ridiculous green shoe scheme was outdated, but it now placed him in a major predicament.  
  
I have an appointment. I'm scheduled for a few hands of baccarat.  
  
Her icy attitude remained unchanged. Meet him on the fourteenth floor, in the high-rollers room.  
  
It's been a pleasure, said Bond and turned away, kicking himself for his lack of preparation. Glancing over at the poker machines, he spotted a young blond man in a white dinner suit talking firmly with one of the undercover police. Willingly, the policeman rose from his seat and was led toward the stairwell by the blond man. Rather than follow, Bond strode to a low-stake roulette table to try his luck.  
  
Eight or nine poorly dressed, working class men and women were randomly throwing bets around the table, simply hoping that their luck was in. 007, having already purchased his chips, decided to win himself a few pounds while killing the remaining forty-seven minutes to nine o'clock, the end of the guards' shift. Using the martingale system, he managed to turn his forty thousand liras into seventy thousand before a male hand was placed over his shoulder.  
  
Bond turned and looked into the fierce hazel eyes of the young man who had ushered the undercover cop away from his position.  
  
Phone call, for you, sir, said the young man with emphasis, so as to speak over the disruptive background murmurs.  
  
Bond glanced casually over at the seats of his three uncover allies, and found all three empty. He found himself dealing with what was, quite possibly, the oldest trick in the book.   
  
Of course, replied 007 with an amiable smile. Who did they ask for?  
  
I suggest you take the call. The smooth, soft voice, a conglomeration of several European accents, was more insistent this time.  
  
murmured the British agent. He sized up the slender man, and figured he had roughly twenty pounds on him, but Bond was not planning on underestimating this unknown quantity. As these thoughts were coursing through his mind, he felt a hard, round object pushed into the base of his spine, and recognised it instantly. At gunpoint, Bond was led to the grand staircase in the northeast without resisting.  
  
On arrival, they found the stairwell empty, save two large casino security guards.  
  
Take this one to Mr Steele, said the blond man, and the guards nodded in obedience. He reentered the gaming room as Bond was led, once again at gunpoint, up the staircase.   
  
Bond afforded himself the luxury of a brief smile. 


	6. The Trouble with Helplessness

Chapter 6  
  
  
Gradually Bond's senses returned to him, one by one, as he lay face down, sprawled on an ice-cold floor. In his ears rang a constant, high-pitched squeal, piercing his mind like a burning needle. His vision was clouded over, blurred to the extent that he could not grasp his surroundings, and he shivered all over, wracked by pain. He remembered little about his confrontation with Steele; he barely knew it had happened. As his sight cleared, he observed his surroundings while he plugged his ears to hinder the sound. He was in a bare, inhospitable room, with cold emanating from the polished steel which covered every visible surface, bar one. A tinted glass window on one wall gave him a view of some high-tech equipment, the nature of which he could not ascertain without closer examination. About six men were in sight, four of whom were adjusting the equipment. The other two, Steele and Laforge, were standing, arms folded, watching Bond closely in the cube-shaped prison. The area was much higher than it was wide or long, the roof perhaps fifty feet above him. Bond noticed in the roof four tremendous black loud-speakers, gazing down at him. Four speakers set in the floor mirrored the roof design, but steel grating six inches above their surface kept Bond from inspecting them more closely. As he observed, a voice spoke through the speakers, coming from every direction and filling his mind.  
  
This time, Mr Bond, said Steele, holding a small microphone in his hand. His voice roared over the top of the other, monotonous sound, even louder. you will tell me everything. Sorry about the suit. You put up quite a struggle.  
  
Bond examined his tuxedo, now torn to shreds, a consequence of some fight that had faded from his memory.  
  
We had to drug you to get you down here, so I doubt you can remember any of it. You will, however, according to the doctors here, be quite able to remember the answers to my questions.  
  
And if I don't? shouted Bond over the deafening squeal.  
  
Then you die.  
  
He paused. Would you mind shutting off the noise so we can discuss this? yelled Bond, his hands covering his ears.  
  
The noise, as you so eloquently put it, is a variable frequency sine wave generator. It is capable of producing sounds up to 160 decibels, a far higher volume than is practical here. The glass between us is a purpose-designed compound, so thick and dense that we cannot hear any sound from that room other than what our microphones detect. The frequency is presently such that our microphones within the room cannot detect it, but your ears can. So, while we increase the volume until your eardrums explode, we will hear nothing at all, excluding, of course, your screams for mercy.  
  
Reminds me of an old girlfriend of mine, quipped Bond.  
  
I'd try to keep the sound in there to a minimum, if I were you, retorted Steele. Let's get on with it. Why are you here?  
  
Bond did not give a reply, and consequently the squeal intensified. Did you know the human eardrum explodes at 150 decibels? asked Steele rhetorically. You'd expect it would take much more. Presently, the sound you can hear is at 105 decibels. We've never had to go any higher than 130. Now. Why are you here?  
  
The reason any other fellow would be at a casino. I came to play the tables for a night before MI-6 instructs us to move in on a Roman drug lord.  
  
said Steele. I forgot to mention something. We also have a primitive form of polygraph, operating solely on the sound of your voice, set up in case you attempt to deceive me. He motioned to two lights on a machine in the control room, one flashing red, the other a dull green. When the red light flashes, as it is doing now, you have lied to me. The din increased again. 110 decibels. Really, Mr Bond, this not a difficult question. Why are you here?  
  
Bond saw no other option but to reply truthfully. To investigate you. We think you're connected with the Hong Kong triad. The man beside you , Hugo Laforge, has been linked to both of you. The green light flickered.  
  
That wasn't so hard, was it? Steele muttered, glaring at Laforge. Laforge avoided his gaze. Next question. How many other agents are in the casino?  
  
said Bond. The green light flashed again.  
  
Steele whispered something unintelligible to Laforge and strode out of the room. Laforge took the microphone with his injured right arm and spoke with his thick Canadian accent.  
  
We meet again, 007, Laforge smiled. The glaring noise increased momentarily, forcing Bond to double over, practically burying his head in the icy floor in a futile attempt to stop the agony. The sound subsided and Bond felt minimal relief. Sorry, that was personal. He paused for a beat, apparently enjoying his complete control over his enemy. Mr Steele's got a flight scheduled, and can't waste another minute. I'll be asking the questions now. What do you know about Operation Zeus?  
  
You must be joking! shouted Bond as he walked towards the window in an attempt to escape the piercing sound. As he did, he noticed a slight adjustment in the sound's frequency as he passed over a grate. I've never heard of an Operation Zeus!  
  
Think about it, Bond, whispered Laforge, his voice echoing throughout Bond's steel chamber. He adjusted a dial and the sound increased again. 115 decibels. This is your last chance. Tell me or die.  
  
Bond made no reply. He could hear Laforge through the microphone, giving orders to the control crew. Max out the system. We'd better get out in case something goes wrong. Bond watched helplessly as the technical staff altered the settings on their machines and left the room in fear.   
  
Alone, Bond recalled his hidden listening device and microphone. Surely MI-6 would have been alerted to the situation. He paused, struggling to hear his own thoughts over the ever-increasing intensity of the ear-shattering scream. Perhaps Steele had already taken care of the Rome headquarters. None of his questions had been related to that. His thoughts returned to his equipment. The bow tie containing the video camera was stripped from him, but his third button remained intact. He tore it off, along with strips of his shirt to plug his ears.  
  
Breaking it open with a less than delicate touch, he examined the interior of the listening device, and thanked Q for the simplicity of it. It consisted of a speaker to amplify the sound within the microphone, a transmitter and the receiver itself. Bond detached the miniature transmitter with precision and, using the steel floor to complete the circuit, connected the amplifier directly to the receiver. Clenching his teeth, he shoved the button through a gap in the grating, ran to the corner nearest the wall and crouched in an airline emergency position.  
  
The wail of the frequency generator continued to heighten, the sound causing Bond tremendous pain as he waited, with a great deal of hope, for his plan to succeed, or to die, as the case may be. He felt his head throbbing, seemingly expanding and contracting, and his whole world was lost in shadow, consumed by the sound enveloping on his mind. Finally, a new frequency broke through the original sound. Though soft, it did its job. The feedback caused by the microphone hurled the system into its emergency shutdown phase. In reality, the noise ceased, while it continued to plague Bond's ears at only a slightly reduced volume.  
  
A new problem faced him. He had only minutes before the crew returned to check his progress, and the prison was no less impregnable than before. He tried to kick through the glass, but he may as well as have tried to knock down the solid steel walls. Instead he tapped the walls until he found a hollow sound, and he recognised this as the point that he must have entered from. He laid down and feigned death in such a way that his open right eye was invisible to onlookers, moments before the crew returned. Surveying Bond's , and satisfied with his accomplishments, Laforge ordered the crew to retrieve Bond from the sound chamber, neglecting to check the several gauges clearly reading Again the control room was empty, and Bond stood waiting for the crew to enter. The ringing in his ears had subsided somewhat, but was still more than a little annoying.   
  
Two of the four crewmen entered the room perplexed. They exchanged gazes, and both inspected the corpse, which had somehow turned around. One felt his knees give away underneath him as the corpse's right leg struck them hard from behind, while it grabbed the other by the feet and took them out from under him. Both hid the solid steel floor hard, and were soon unconscious after receiving blows to the temple. Bond charged out of the chamber and was confronted by two more small, unarmed crewmen.   
  
They soon realised their situation, one shouting, at the top of his cigarette-affected lungs as his eyes widened. Bond knocked him out with a right cross to the face, as the other wound up for a swing of his own. The blow missed by a proverbial mile as the secret agent caught his arm, dislocated it, and rendered him unconscious in a similar fashion.   
  
Bond now found himself in some sort of checkpoint, obviously for safety purposes in such close proximity to potentially deadly sound levels. An armed guard faced the door entering this checkpoint, fortunately deafened by his regular exposure to the sound waves. Bond crept up from behind and landed a judo chop on the back of his neck with trademark precision. The guard fell like dead-weight, his arm cracking audibly as he struck the tiled floor. He took the guard's weapon, a Taurus PT-99, and noticing their similar size, stripped him of his navy blue uniform and ID card.  
  
Dressed as the guard, Bond had a chance to look over the facility, passing other guards and men in laboratory coats. He had no recollection of these halls from the blueprints, and the tiled corridors and bare white walls gave him little clue as to the nature of the work taking place. Although his command of Italian was relatively poor, he was able to interpret the signs with reasonable success. One sign in particular caught his attention, reading , which may well have, by his reasoning, meant prison. He decided to check it out, working on the old Chinese principle that his enemy's enemy would be his friend. He walked disinterestedly past the two armed guards at the entrance to the cells, keeping his identification half-covered.  
  
In synch with the rest of the place, the prison was lit brightly, like a quentinox, but the cold, hard concrete floor and walls with their mysterious stains reminded him of this area's purpose. Three tiny cells were installed, but only one contained a prisoner. Bond took a chance and spoke to the sole occupant, a woman in her early thirties, with a bruised and bleeding face, sprawled across the only piece of furniture, a worn, fold-out spring bed.  
  
What are you in for? he whispered.  
  
I won't talk, she replied in a British accent, eyeing him off. Not any more.  
  
Who are you? he tried again.  
  
Leave me alone, she said, her voice trembling. I've told you everything. About MI-6...  
  
Hold on, said Bond keeping his voice down. You're with MI-6? You're one of the agents?  
  
Yes. But you people already knew...  
  
My name's Bond, James Bond. We're on the same side. And we've got to get you out of here.  
  
Instead of looking relieved, she became visibly distressed. I'm sorry, she said, between sobs, wiping tears from her battered face. I told them everything. I told them about you, the police, the location of our station here, everything.  
  
The last one startled Bond. Steele would no doubt rush to eliminate every possible trace of this covert operation aimed at him. Bond hastily checked the guard's belt, which he wore around his waist, and fumbled until he found the right key. He unlocked the iron-barred door with all haste, and helped his wounded companion out of the cell with an arm around her narrow waist. A smaller, fourth door, made of solid iron, which he had not previously seen, was also in the room, and, opened with another of the keys from the belt. Behind it, he found a stuffy storage room, containing three Walther PPK's, his bow tie, some C-4 and two standard issue MI-6 magnetic tracking devices, all of which seemed to be fully functional.  
  
Where's the other agent? queried Bond, his memory triggered by the three weapons. No reply. He assumed the worst.  
  
Pocketing the bow tie, C-4 and trackers, he drew the Taurus and Walther, preparing to take out the cell guards. As he did, another sound, reminiscent of the steel chamber, blared in his ears. Something, whether it was the cell door, or the discovery of unconscious men, had triggered the alarm. Bond redoubled his pace, throwing the outside door open and firing at the bewildered guards, twice each. They fell to the floor as Bond helped the agent over the bodies and down the corridor. He remembered the elevator, but could he and his companion make it out before the building was sealed?  



End file.
